


Lost in the Darkness of the Night

by Sarahkaymcc



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fake Character Death, Gen, Genderswap, Heartbreak, Unrequited Love, or so it seems, so i am deeply sorry, this is probably proper shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-09 15:55:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1147853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarahkaymcc/pseuds/Sarahkaymcc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had been two years. Two-bloody-years. Sherlock had been buried beneath John's feet for a while now, but she couldn't find it in herself to find happiness in the world. John had tried to find it dating Marc Morstan, but he just wasn't Sherlock.<br/>John liked to say her hope was on fire, that her heart was too heavy to weep, she felt hopeless, she felt meaningless without him. And no matter how hard she tried, she was unbelievably, unconditionally in-love with the man.<br/>And when the darkness grew stronger, who would pull her to the light?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost in the Darkness of the Night

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Sherlock fan fiction, and I am absolutely entranced with the idea of female John Watson.  
> So, I have began to create it.
> 
> I have done a sort of beginning to the fake death of Sherlock, but warning, I have not seen Season 3 yet, so I am not doing this anything like the reappearance of Sherlock in the show.  
> Hang in there with me. I am kind of write proper shit, so sorry.
> 
> This chapter is very short, and basically is my sum of John's feelings.  
> I hope you enjoy it, and a much larger chapter to come if anyone enjoys this one.  
> Comment/Like please. :) xx

Prologue

“For a woman who prefers the use of a male nickname, you are exceedingly feminine“ The infamous Mycroft Holmes teased John Watson, a female known for her prior work with the equally infamous Sherlock Holmes.

  
“Oh, shush, Mycroft,” John hissed, not amused in the slightest, nor welcome to the teasing. “Your teasing doesn’t affect me.”

  
John didn’t dare look up at the man towering over her, she didn’t dare look into the face of the man that looked so darn familiar to the one she had lost.

  
It had been two years, two bloody years that Sherlock has been gone, buried beneath the earth, and she hates it. Hates having to live without the ignorant twit of a flat mate.

  
It scared her, she wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but it scared her. Living without Sherlock forever, having to go through the day without the anger she had known so well arising in her chest, swelling into a bubble she couldn’t suppress. And every time she felt that anger, she remembered Sherlock, the man she had adored and hated at the same time.

  
But it had been two years, she had lived alone for two years without him. She had taken to dating another man, Marc, and they were happy for a while, but John couldn’t find happiness for long when that happiness wasn’t caused by Sherlock.

  
Day by day, all she thought of was Sherlock, and now after almost a year and a half, standing before her is his older brother, the brother that looks remarkably like his younger.

  
The one John was so hopelessly in-love with.

  
John never told anyone of the feelings she held for the man she had once held so near, because how messed up would she seem to the public loving a dead man. One that ever so clearly did not return the feelings when he was still living.  
She remembers very clearly, the moment she knew she wasn’t going to be alright. The moment she knew she would spiral into an abyss of nothing.

  
She knew, when she stood on the dewy grass of Sherlock’s grave, staring at the shiny marble of his gravestone and the immaculately craved name on it, that she would not be okay.

  
She knew by the way her eyes stayed dry that there was nothing left for her here, her life after Afghanistan had been meaningless, completely and utterly useless, she had stuck to the same routine every morning, she had walked with the same psychosomatic limp and her hand shook every time she even thought of the war. And she thinks that may be one of the little things she should have thanked Sherlock for, for helping her, but mostly, she should have thanked him for letting her love him, not in such simple words, and maybe he didn’t know, but she loved him nonetheless.

  
John didn’t turn to look at Mrs Hudson’s retreating figure, she just stood there, in her usual scrummy attire and scruffy hair, and stared at Sherlock’s grave, the grave of the man she loved, loved more than she could even describe into words.

  
“Sherlock,” John spoke, her voice cracking mildly, but that didn’t even begin to describe how heartbroken she felt, and probably looked.

  
That did not stop her from continuing however, pushing the pale back of her hand against her chapped lips and gave out a mild cough, not loud in the slightest, but echoed through the dead graveyard, John almost smiled from the thought.

  
“Can you do one last thing for me?” John began again, staring intently at the gravestone, the wind brushing her hair over her face, she knew she probably looked as heartbroken as she felt. “Don’t leave me here alone, just please. I am begging you. Don’t be dead.”

  
John ducked her head, and gave a slight cough before turning and beginning to walk away with a slow rhythmic movement of her thin, shapely legs. John came to a stop suddenly, turning around for a second, and looking at Sherlock’s grave again, this time her left eye gave a tear, letting it slide down her cheek, rosy from the cold.

  
“Don’t be dead.”


End file.
